


Inferno

by Servena



Category: Rush (2013)
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Nürburgring, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-08-24 00:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8349385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Servena/pseuds/Servena
Summary: The red ferrari in front of him swerves off the track like it's being pulled by an invisible force and slams sideways into the wall.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the Summerchallenge 2016.

When you're going around on the track at 180 miles per hour, curiously everything else seems to be moving in slow motion. Maybe it's the adrenaline running through your veins, the heightened senses that make you feel every small movement of the car and every irregularity of the track underneath. James doesn't know. He just sees.

The red Ferrari in front of him swerves off the track like it's being pulled by an invisible force and slams sideways into the wall. One of the tyres is being ripped off like it belongs to a toy car. He slams his foot onto the brake without thinking, the car shuddering around him, revolting against the sudden change of pace. When the Ferrari is thrown back onto the track, skidding helplessly over the asphalt, he yanks the wheel to the right, narrowly avoiding a collision.

He lets the McLaren roll out on the gravel bed next to the road. Only then can his brain catch up with what just happened. Niki.

He climbs out of the car, vaguely aware that he is shaking. When he turns to the road, all he can see is smoke. It fills the air and he can't breathe, he can't _see_. “Niki!” he keeps shouting as he steps onto the road, “Niki!” The roaring sound of fire is filling his ears, it seems to come from everywhere around him. Where is the bloody car? ”HELP!” he yells, looking around frantically. Someone has to be around, a marshal, another driver, anyone. Wasn't Jody just behind him? He can't remember seeing the blue Tyrell during the crash.

The wind lifts the smoke for a moment and the red Ferrari appears in front of him like a ghost. Yellow flames are rising high out of the engine, licking at the rear wing. The stench of fuel, hot metal and burning paint is overwhelming. 

In the driver's seat he can see the silhouette of a person. “NIKI!” His hand touches the side of the car and he recoils from the intense heat. “I'll get you out!”

He fumbles with the seatbelt, but he can't seem to get it open, everything is tangled and he can barely see his own hands. 

The flames are spreading and then Niki starts screaming.

 

He's sitting upright in his bed, tangled in his sheets, his breath coming in short, rapid gasps. Before he can even form a coherent thought, he can feel the bile rising in his throat and he stumbles to the bathroom, nearly falling over the sheets and hitting his shoulder on the door frame before he drops to his knees and starts throwing up into the toilet.

When it's over, he rises to his feet and stumbles over to the sink. He draws in deep breath after breath, but it isn't enough, he still feels sick and his head is spinning. He grabs the sink for support, knuckles white underneath the skin. The water from the tap washes the sour taste out of his mouth, but it can't wash the images out of his head. 

He always thought that by accepting the possibility of his own death, he accepted the possibility of everyone else's death as well. Every year, two of them die, during test drives, in races. Everyone makes the choice on their own for their own reasons, to risk their lives for money, for fame, for the rush. Niki once said that he races because it’s the only thing he is good at.

The drivers that die are replaced and the races go on. He has seen in time and time again. He thought that he had accepted it.

But who could ever replace Niki?

When Suzy left him, he was broken. But there was still Niki, challenging him, pushing him to give his best, to take the races seriously. Without him, the sparkling wine at the victory celebration tastes like nothing at all.

He can't die. Without him, there will be nothing left to keep him going.

James Hunt sits down on the cold tiles with his back against the bathtub and cries for the first time in years.


End file.
